


Why Me?

by aestherisms



Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Original Work
Genre: Blood, F/M, Injury, Marvel Universe, Post-Deadpool (2016), Self-Esteem Issues, X-Men References, i'm so mad when did i stray from the gay, these fucking heteros, weasel is a cute babe and i love him???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 19:44:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6390721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aestherisms/pseuds/aestherisms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weasel doesn't know how to handle kitchen knives or women he's into. Tess thinks this boy is the cat's pyjamas and really wants to kiss his face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why Me?

**Author's Note:**

> (Weasel is usually written by me on [this blog](http://www.wherethewaywardwander.tumblr.com), but I get [Max](http://www.youretheonedrowning.tumblr.com) to write him for when I ship him with my nerds, or wanna do threads with Weasel and someone on my OC blog. Tess is my own creation.)

It's three in the morning, and someone is bleeding.

They're close to her; startlingly so--a spiking shot of adrenaline in their system as pain lances sharp under their skin, and a droplet of blood hits a tile floor.

Tess' fingers twitch against the pillow, breath catching in her throat, a small line appearing between her brows as the quiet of a sound finds her. Her eyes remain closed; she stays held in rest, though it becomes a broken up thing as whoever is injured nears her. Her mind can feel it; the splitting of cells, nerve endings singing with pain and skin broken as blood _pours_ like wine with markedly similar darkness.

A knock at her door. Two taps, three taps, impatient, worried shifting at the other side. Tess shifts, just a touch; softness of worry curling slow at her fingertips and urging her into wakefulness. Through the door, she hears her name, voice cracking at the middle of the word, Jack beyond with a heartbeat like hummingbirds. Her eyes open, slow, blinking into awareness; disorientation even as a soft wash of anxiety sweeps over her. "C'min?" she calls, brushes hair out of her face with a momentarily un-coordinated swipe of touch; shifting onto her side and biting back a yawn before it can surface and let its presence be known.

"I-I didn't....I'm--bad at knives." Jack steps into the room; hair pulled back, dish-towel wound around his left hand as he cradles it with his right, "it--it's still...it won't stop bleeding, and I can't--I'm....I need to do things and it won't _stop_." He presses down on the cloth, hisses as it burns, and Tess beckons him close with a quiet, soothing sound; guides him with touch against his forearm to sit at the edge of her bed.

"Lemme see," she murmurs; patient in her wait as he unwraps the damaged hand and keeps it on his own lap, as though he's afraid of bleeding on her or her things. She can see vaguely in the dim light of the room; a deep cut shocking its way through his system and setting pain into his every breath as he waits, all anxiety and nervous breath. "'S okay," a quiet utterance, she gathers a shirt from the floor next to her bed; wrapping it around her own left hand before settling her right palm at the inner warmth of his wrist, "breathe--'s done soon."

Words are hard when you're half asleep--but nothing wakes you up quicker than a jolt of pain; deep, slicing _ache_ that catches her and freezes breath in her lungs for a moment. God, he'd gotten himself good--and he makes a sound not unlike a concerned puppy when she slips a shaky breath past her teeth and shifts uncomfortably for the moment it takes the injury to transfer. It's sharp, after a second of his skin mending, and when she breaks contact, it's to press _hard_ against the shirt catching her blood before it hits the ground; turning over onto her back to gaze up at him as she settles elbow on mattress and holds the injured appendage up for comfort and soothing the pain away.

"Sorry," he manages; the word catching in his throat as he settles a hesitant hand on hers and helps with the pressure, "I...it--I panicked, I think." The addition of touch hurts--moreso than she expected, but she doesn't flinch. Not now--not with him.

"Y'think?" She murmurs; smile curling through the pain and teasing sweetly at her mouth, "this--was definitely panic. But--you're okay, aye?"

Jack seems, entirely for a moment, caught up in watching her breathe; gaze on hers, blinks slow, like he's a creature of night that's never seen the sun, and it rises behind the quiet of her watching him back. A nod, after a beat of breath, he shakes his head as though trying to rid it of dust, and looks down at their hands as she slow-flexes her fingers. "I am," he confirms--she appreciates it; aforementioned digits curling around the side of his hand as he shifts the pressure a touch firmer. "It doesn't--even hurt? Anymore?"

A laugh catches her, sleepy-warm once more as her own pain fades, "mmh, you're not injured anymore, makes sense." Tess is careful with tugging her hand away; easing bloodied fabric from her skin as she settles it back into the held-up position and presents her palm for his inspection. The skin is still working through the stages of healing; forming scar tissue that starts off vivid and slow-fades to silvery softness. It sinks away into nothingness; skin whole and healed after a minute or two, and it feels like they're watching a show together; sitting and lying in her bedroom, gazes on her body as it changes. The flush that had caught him in response to her words fades away--and when the scarring is nearly complete, his touch is hesitant against the newly-knit tissue.

"Careful," she murmurs; not pulling away, even as his fingertips against the sensitivity of it makes her shiver, "'s still sensitive." Jack pulls his hand away as though he's been burnt, a stuttered breath of apologies following before Tess shakes her head and reaches for him once more. "'S okay, lamb," she assures softly, "'s just...new skin. Y'can touch--see? 'S nearly gone now."

"I don't wanna hurt you." His expression is quiet and half-pained; an admission that feels much _more_ than the words alone could be taken to mean, "I really--jeeze, Tess, I don't..."

She guides his hand to hers once more, and two of his fingers press to her palm, over the skin that doesn't look at _all_ like it had been split. There's blood, still--but in their lives, there will always be blood. It doesn't bother her, but his exhale is a touch hotter than normal, and she watches him press soft contact to her red-slicked skin as his mind spins into things she knows he doesn't want to say yet.

"What were you doin', anyway?" She asks then; content to hold her hand steady as the ache fades to nothing and he slicks his touch there slow, "was a deep cut, you takin' up chainsaw carvin'?" It was obvious that he had been cooking; the scent of starch-laced water clinging vaguely to his shirt, hair back as best he can get it, the dishtowel with fresh tomato sauce at the corner--but it's an out, and she wants to make him _comfortable_ , here.

A pause, he seems lost again--and he looks up with the quiet of nervous shyness in his eyes as he says, halting, "I. There--you mentioned a um. Chicken dish? From--from Hungary, when you visited with your mom." Lower lip worried at with teeth, he moves his hand away and uses his dish-towel to swipe redness from her skin, then his--help others first, then himself. God, she wants to kiss him. "It's--I don't remember the name, it's in Hungarian, I have--I have it um," a gesture towards the kitchen, "it's up on my phone in the...in the kitchen, and you said you only wanted um. A nap?"

Oh. 

Up on her side; half sitting, braced comfortably by the elbow, Tess smiles softly and nods; teasing sweetness edging easily into her warm gaze. "Were you makin' me _dinner_ , Jackie?"

His flush is brilliant and quick, and the desire for her mouth on his spikes sharply in her chest; unconscious physical manifestation in her hand, fairly blood free, settling on his upper arm. He presses into the touch like an affection-starved kitten, and oh, she _aches_ with nerves and warmth, knows in a _moment_ she would give him anything he asked for.

"I--Yeah," he nods, rubbing at the back of his neck for a moment before gesturing at her, palm up and half-pointing, "you forgot to um. To eat today? And I--I mean, I sort of...I thought we could. Maybe eat together? And--talk?" The redness intensifies, and he looks down, "ah--I mean, nothing...nothing bad, not--serious, more...just. Um. Spending time, y'know?"

The smile on her face blossoms, and he glances up as she nods; biting her own lip lest the smile widen, become brighter and altogether a disaster of _he wants to spend time with me_. She feels like a schoolgirl with a crush, jesus--she is _not_ a little girl, and this life, her allowance to be open about what she is, her ease of speaking to him--it's made her _soft_.

God, _he_ has made her soft.

"I'd love t'have dinner with you." She accepts it easily--ignores the flutter under her skin, ignores the way his smile could light up the whole world when she speaks. "So long as y'promise t'be careful with knives from now on."

A surprised half-snort of laughter, and she sees in him the urge to cover his mouth. He only ever hides around her--when they're with friends, at the bar, he's open about what he calls _the mess that is his existence_ ; uses it as a humorous device. But with her? It's shyness, and _I sound stupid_ , and not knowing if he should look at her eyes or her mouth when she watches him work. His hands remain where they are, though--and a quiet slip of pride catches her. He doesn't like his laugh, or his smile, or his buck-teeth, he's said--but getting lost in the sweetness of his artwork-beauty is easy.

"Why...are you picking me?" It's a sudden change of topic--but nevertheless, she follows; watches the way his smile changes slow to confusion and vague self-doubt. "You've done....a lot," he says, quiet now; a sharp contrast to the laughter and smiles, but nonetheless gorgeous in his pensiveness, "you've been--you talk about it, you've been so many places? And--seen so many people, done so much. And I'm. I mean, I'm--alright? But. Ain't a thing special enough about me that you should pick me."

At least he knows her heart has chosen his to fall into nefarious cahoots with. That's something.

Tess doesn't move; doesn't sit up. She doesn't need to--because he's comfortable as he is, and she is as she is, and she's never felt _safe_ in lying supine and easy next to someone with an advantage of position. He'd never, for a moment, dream of hurting her. She's made of cells that can become _ferocity_ , can mimic iron compounds, can set fire to water with a glance, should she desire it--but she doesn't. All she wants is him. All she knows is that he makes her and her chaos feel safe.

Instead, she shakes her head; finds his hand with hers as the sliver of light from the hallway casts illumination over his knees and her abdomen, door shifting with the draft from her window. "I choose you because..." pausing, how to phrase this? How to give way to the words catching under her tongue, lingering in her days and chasing her into smiles when he speaks. "I've never...known a home like this," finally, something bright enough that she can use to express what her mind does with her heart, "I hide. I always hide. But here--people are open about who they are. What they are."

Her fingers slip to his inner wrist; brush of touch, his pulse flutters sharp, and his gaze is open and _soft_ against hers.

"I don't know what I am," she admits quietly, watching her hand on the bare skin of his forearm, "I'm not a mutant. I'm not a normal human. But. I feel...like I don't have to be ashamed of that anymore, with you." Her touch paints trails of heat, and Jack makes a low sound, like concern, or desire, or something she doesn't have a word for yet. "You're...easy to know," continuation, her voice low, accent a touch thicker with her previously quick-abandoned sleep, "I choose you 'cause. I've done a lot. 'Cause I've been places, 'nd seen people. 'Nd--you're the only one that's ever. Made it easy to leave my shame behind. You're th'only one that I know I'd never forget."

The silence descends the feathers in the wake of her admission; weight of nothingness easy and soft as it falls around them, and he's red and his eyes are _bright_ and nothing in this world could outshine how home she feels. He almost appears to have lost speech entire for a moment; instead looks down at her hand, up to her mouth, her eyes, back to her mouth.

"Can. Can I--kiss you, Tess?"

He sounds like he expects his freefall to end on spikes, and her heart cracks as her smile warms. "Aye," breath of a word; her palm brushing across chest, above the soft, vaguely hidden curve of collarbone, up to the side of his neck and into his hair as he shifts nearer. They meet easily--for once, there's no stutter in his bones, there's no fear that she's playing him, that she's yanking strings like a puppeteer. His hand ends up on her jawline; fingers tangling into her dark locks, and a slow, shaky breath shivers from him as he licks slow into her mouth, like he could steal her words for a lifetime with the honest _desire_ there.

He tastes like cherries, and she wants to steal _him_. She kisses him like the whole world is fading away; nothing desperate in passion so much as the softness of fingers curling through his soft, unruly hair as it escapes its elastic confines. Her nails graze his scalp, and she breathes a quiet sound of contentment when he presses closer, kisses deeper like he _hungers_ for her, for her sounds and her hands on him. It carries into intimacy of shaking breath, of how they're so honestly caught in this moment, in each other, that the world could very well be completely gone and they wouldn't notice at all.

When it ends, it's him that brings it about; huff of laugh warm against her kiss-slick mouth before he murmurs "I have--there's stuff on the stove." He wants to carry on like this; wants to be close to her, to stay and touch and _experience_ , and she settles his hormone level with a slow pass of cells from body to body.

"God, I like a responsible man," she teases under her breath; brushes his hair back to tuck it behind his ear, "not lettin' the place burn down, what a gentleman--I could kiss you for it." A pause. "Again."

He laughs then; an honest thing that sets her smile brighter, "after dinner, maybe. If--if you still..."

She settles palms at either side of his jaw; gaze serious and fond as she murmurs "I will still. I do still. You--" Another pause, she kisses him like a brush of softness now, before urging him to sit as she does. "Beautiful boy. C'mon--show me what dish you're makin'."

He doesn't protest--and the kitchen beckons them, warmth in the air; steam from cooking, the oven on, the way she can't stop watching him like performance art under stars.


End file.
